Sam's Psychosis
by KatieAlice
Summary: Sam has weekly sessions with a psychiatrist after falling into a suicidal depression. Not necessarily a deathfic. referrences to self harm, quite a bit of swearing.


**Sam's Psychosis**

**This was inspired by a play called 4:48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane. The dialogue is mostly taken from bits of the play which I have played around with it to make it fit the story. The story is set some time in season 1 as I haven't watched season 2 (I'm from the UK and have not got ITV2) - I really need to get a digi-box so that I can! Note - italics indicate Sam's thoughts (though you probably could have figured that out yourselves).**

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Week 1

Sam's session had been going on for half an hour now. He had talked about his life at Stanford, his friends, his beautiful girlfriend jess. The stupid doctor just sat there making notes as he rambled on. What did any of that matter now? It was gone. It was all gone.

He paused as he came nearer to that night. The night it had all gone up in flames – his love, his life, his future. They're all gone. They might as well have burned with Jess.

"But you have a brother," the doctor prompted. Silence was all that answered the man. "You have a loving brother."

Silence.

"What do you offer your brother to make him so supportive?" Sam glared and refused to answer. "What do you offer?" he said more gently. When it was clear he was going to get no response he sighed and flipped his notepad over to the next clean page.

"Let's talk about the fire," he said quietly. "How did that make you feel?"

Sam looked at the doctor incredulously. _How did that make me feel_?

"I had a night in which everything was revealed to me," Sam said wryly. "How can I speak again?"

"Sam-"

"Sam, what? Sam, it's alright? Sam, it's not your fault? Sam, remember the light and believe the light?" he laughed sarcastically. _An instant of clarity before eternal night_, he thought, blinking back the tears he so desperately did not want to fall.

He was halfway to the door when flashes of images of that night suddenly flooded his mind. Cookies, bed, shower running, blood, gasp, fire, scream, Jess, dead, dead, dead, DEAD!

As quickly as they came to him, bringing him to his knees, they were gone. Just. Like. That.

Mind blank.

_Don't let me forget_.

Week 2

After his first session, Sam felt the ice had broken somewhat which was why he now sat, a week later, pouring out everything he had been feeling lately.

The doctor sat opposite him, scribbling everything he said down on his stupid little notepad. Sam didn't know why, but that notepad really annoyed him.

"I am sad," Sam began. "I feel that the future is hopeless and that things cannot improve. I am bored and dissatisfied with everything. I am a complete failure as a person. I am guilty, I am being punished."

_I would like to kill myself_.

"I have lost interest in other people. I can't make decisions. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't think. I cannot overcome my loneliness, my fear, my disgust. I cannot write. I cannot love. My mother is dead, my lover is dead, I have killed them both."

_I am charging towards my death_.

"I am terrified of medication. I cannot make love. I cannot fuck. I cannot be alone. I cannot be with others." He stopped. A bird outside the window had caught his attention. He had often, as a kid, expressed a wish to be a bird and fly away from all the troubles in his life. Dean had laughed at him, Dad had said you can't run away from your troubles, only hunting them down and killing them will let you be free of them.

_Fuck them_. He made a decision.

"At 4:48 when desperation visits I shall hang myself to the sound of my brother's breathing."

_I do not want to die _

Sam stood up and walked towards the window and stared out as he said, "I have become so depressed by the fact of my mortality that I have decided to commit suicide."

_I do not want to live_.

Sam grimaced at the sunlight pouring in, blinding him and turned away and began to pace the room.

"I am jealous of my sleeping brother and covet his induced unconsciousness. I have resigned myself to death this year."

_This is becoming my normality_.

Week 3

The doctor was very pleased to see Sam alive and well at their next session. Not that he had really taken his threats of suicide seriously. He could sense that there was still a part of Sam clinging on to life and was unwilling, just yet, to admit Sam.

He sat in front of Sam, looking him in the eyes. "So, have you made any plans?" he asked slowly.

"Take an overdose, slash my wrists then hang myself," Sam replied flatly, staring straight back.

"All those things together?"

"It couldn't possibly be misconstrued as a cry for help," Sam answered determinedly.

"It wouldn't work," said the stupid doctor, not even bothering to write anything down on his fucking notepad.

"Of course it would." Sam said defensively.

"It wouldn't work. You'd start to feel sleepy from the overdose and wouldn't have the energy to cut your wrists," the doctor smiled grimly.

Now Sam definitely knew that the doctor was stupid. "I'd be standing on a chair with a noose around my neck," he said as if it was perfectly obvious.

The doctor cleared his throat, took up that useless notebook and started writing away in silence. Nearly three minutes went by before Sam said anything.

"Do you despise all unhappy people or is it me specifically?" he asked.

The doctor put his pen down and studied Sam for a minute. "I don't despise you," he said, "It's not your fault. You're ill."

"I don't think so," Sam replied, frowning.

"No?"

"No. I'm depressed. Depression is anger. It's what you did, who was there and who you're blaming."

"And who are you blaming?" The doctor asked.

"Myself." He stared at the floor, not seeing it but deep in thought. After two minutes he looked up again. "After 4:48 I shall not speak again," he said in a faraway voice.

_I have been dead for a long time_.

"What does she look like?"

"What?" said Sam, startled by the question, "I, no, what business is it of yours? How dare you, I don't want to talk about her-"

"Sam-"

"No, fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you for making me feel shit about myself! Fuck my father for fucking up my life for good and fuck my mother for dying! But most of all, fuck you God, for letting me love a person who burned to death! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

Week 4

Still reeling from last week's outburst, the doctor had prepared himself for anything and decided, if need be, to treat him like a child if he continued to behave like one.

The first thing he noticed when Sam walked in was that his left arm was wrapped in bandages and blood appeared to be soaking through.

"Oh dear, what's happened to your arm?" he said, as if talking to a child that had scraped their knee and knowing full well what had happened.

"I cut it," Sam said shortly, bringing his arm close to his chest protectively. He sat down.

The doctor dropped all pretences and said bluntly, "That's a very immature, attention seeking thing to do. Did it give you relief?"

"No."

"Did it relieve the tension?" he asked again.

"No."

"I don't understand why you did that."

"Then ask." Sam hissed.

"Can I look?"

"No," he said firmly

"I'd like to look to see if it's infected," the doctor implored.

"No," was his answer.

The doctor sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hand. "I thought you might do this," he said, "Lots of people do. It relieves the tension."

"Have you ever done it?" Sam spat back. "No. Far too fucking sane and sensible. I don't know where you read that, but it does not relieve the tension."

Sam sat up straighter as the doctor leant forward again. "Why don't you ask me why? Why did I cut my arm?"

The doctor blinked. "would you like to tell me?" he asked, gazing at Sam.

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

"ASK ME WHY!" Sam shouted.

"Why did you cut your arm?" he asked softly.

"BECAUSE IT FEELS FUCKING GREAT! BECAUSE IT FEELS FUCKING AMAZING!" Sam's eyes widened as he realised what he had said, and knew at once that it was the truth.

"Can I look?" the doctor said again.

"You can look," Sam said, unwrapping the bandages and extending his arm, "but don't touch."

The doctor examined Sam's arm for a minute then looked up to his face and said, "And you don't think you're ill?"

"No."

"I do. It's not your fault. But you have to take responsibility for your own actions. Please don't do it again."

Week 5

Sam sat in the familiar room, on the other side of the doctor's desk. There were photographs on the desk. And on the shelves. And on the windowsill. No doubt family and friends. Sam didn't have any photos. They had all burned with the rest of his belongings in the fire. Not one single photo of his mother, father, Dean. Or Jess. Jess.

"In ten years time she'll still be dead," he said. "When I'm living with it, dealing with it, when a few days pass when I don't even think of it, she'll still be dead. When I'm an old man living on the street forgetting my name she'll still be dead, she'll still be dead, it's just fucking over. And I must stand alone."

"Where do I start? Where do I stop? How do I start?"

_As I mean to go on_.

"There's a dotted line on my throat saying CUT HERE." And the tears began to fall. This time he didn't stop them. He turned away, not wanting the doctor to see him as a weak, pathetic creature who cries like a girl.

"LOOK AWAY FROM ME!" He yelled through his tears.

"It's all right." The doctor was doing a shitty job at trying to comfort him.

"LOOK AWAY FROM ME!" he yelled again.

"It's all right. I'm here."

"Look away from me," he sobbed. "I would rather have lost my legs, pulled out my teeth, gouged out my eyes than lost my love."

"At 4:48 I shall sleep," he said shakily.

_I have no desire for death, no suicide ever had._

_Watch me vanish_

_Watch me … vanish_

_Watch me_

_Watch me_

_Watch_

END

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**R&R?**


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